


Shower

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Vassalord
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Showers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The water washes them clean almost immediately.” Chris has a moral crisis and Rayflo solves it for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shower

The sound of running water is what does it. Johnny would be happy to lie in bed all day, especially with his limbs languid with exhaustion as they are now, but the splash of water hitting tile brings with it particularly vivid mental images, and after several minutes of imagining he pulls himself out of bed and pads into the bathroom to see if reality is anything like as good as the theatre of his head.

It’s hard to see anything, at first. The water must be blistering hot, to fill the room so entirely with steam, so Johnny has to cross all the way to the door of the shower before he can make out the outline of Chris’s body in the spray, still wearing his white shirt and dark pants and careless of the water drenching them.

“Cherry,” Johnny lilts, but the other man doesn’t move. His hands are pressed flat against the wall of the shower, head bowed under the fall of water, and the tension across his shoulders is visible even with the minimal obstruction of the shirt.

Johnny opens the door, steps in, and reaches out to trace a path of water along Chris’s spine. The younger man goes tense under his hand.

“ _Don’t_.” It would be a command if his voice were steadier. As it is it comes out a plea, almost tearful even over the white noise of the water.

“Cherry,” Johnny says again without moving his hand. “Don’t do this.”

Chris’s eyes are shut, but he shakes his head without looking back at Johnny. “You decided to give up on a moral code long ago.” He sounds agonized, like he’s speaking around a mortal wound. “I  _can’t_  make that decision.”

With Chris not looking at him Johnny can let his gaze slide slow over the shirt clinging see-through to the blond’s shoulders, the pants caught on his hips. He sighs and steps in closer, digs his hand into Chris’s short hair and loops his other around the other man’s waist.

“Look at me.”

Chris shakes his head again, features pulled tight in what looks like pain. “You got what you wanted already.”

“And you got what  _you_  wanted.” Johnny traces his fingers over the curve of Chris’s shoulder. “I don’t know why you fight so hard.”

“Don’t touch me,” Chris says, but it’s a sob more than it is an order, and this close with his eyes squeezed shut he looks momentarily like the child he was when Johnny met him years and decades ago. “I  _can’t_.”

“Stop fighting,” Johnny says, and when he gently pulls at Chris’s shoulder the other man turns, although his eyes are still shut. “Look at me.”

There is a pause heavy with anticipation, and then Chris opens his eyes. Water drips off his eyelashes to splash against his face and his mouth is shining with wet, and his eyes are sad but Johnny still starts to lean in to kiss him.

The hand on his shoulder stops him, even though Chris isn’t pushing and Johnny can feel the younger man’s arm shaking. “Don’t.”

Johnny stares at him for a moment. Then he dips his head in acquiescence and leans in again.

“Wait,” Chris gets out as Johnny’s lips drag over the wet on his collarbone. “What are you --”

“I can’t kiss your  _mouth_ , right? My sweet Cherry.” Johnny parts his lips, drags his tongue over the liquid to catch the hot water into his mouth. Chris shivers. “Will you let me kiss the rest of you?”

Chris is utterly silent, and his hand is still pressed against Johnny’s shoulder, but he doesn’t refuse, and when Johnny licks up the line of his neck to the edge of his metal ear he turns his head fractionally to give him better access.

It’s more compliance that he usually offers, and with Chris Johnny has learned to take whatever he is given. He steps in to press against the wet-thin clothes, and Chris backs up until he hits the wall and lays his hands flat and neutral against the tile, but he doesn’t protest aloud.

The shower is still running, spilling water down over them as fast as Johnny can kiss Chris dry, and in the spray of heat they’re both white and black and gold, with none of the red Johnny is used to considering everpresent with them. Chris’s shirt is see-through and clinging so Johnny’s not sure it’s not better than none at all, and when he moves up along the younger man’s hairline to press his lips to the corner of Chris’s eyelashes the blond shuts his eyes in a way that is nearly permission.

Chris’s hands may be carefully apart, but Johnny’s are under no such compunction; he slides them up under the wet fabric of Chris’s shirt, drags his fingernails gently over bare skin, and when Chris swallows back a moan and flinches with his continued restraint, Johnny comes back in to kiss the corner of his mouth, the edge of his lower lip, everywhere around but not on his mouth. He can feel the younger man breathing harder with every motion, until finally he opens his eyes and says, “ _Please_.”

Johnny draws back to take stock of Chris’s expression, and his mouth is shaking and his eyes are big and dark and pained, and he knows that Chris would swear that word was a plea to stop but Johnny knows want when he hears it. When he leans in, he does it slow, and Chris watches him come and doesn’t turn his head, and Johnny feels him sigh in surrender just before their lips come together. He tastes like salt from water-washed tears, and copper from Johnny’s own blood, and like Chris, sharp and bright and sweeter than anyone else Johnny’s ever kissed.

Chris doesn’t move his hands when Johnny reaches for the front of his soaked pants, just leans back against the tiled wall and shuts his eyes and lets the other manage the buckle and buttons, but he’s hard before Johnny gets there, the wet fabric clinging to his cock as much as his chest. He barely reacts when Johnny touches him, just a hard inhale the other would miss were he not listening for it, and he is silent when Johnny wraps his fingers around his erection, although the tension in his face relaxes slightly.

“Relax, Cherry,” Johnny suggests, but Chris doesn’t, as he never does. His eyes are shut tight and his lips are set, and his hands are flat and tight against the wall like he’s afraid of what he’ll do if he lets them free. Johnny leans in, lays himself warm against Chris’s chest, and slides his hold along the other man’s cock. When he kisses Chris’s neck he gets a faint whimper; when he settles into a rhythm he gets half-a-moan before Chris bites his lip and screws his face up with the effort of restraining his reaction.

When Johnny drags his teeth very gently against Chris’s skin, the other man’s control over his vocal chords gives way. He groans, rocks forward into the contact, and after that every breath is loud and panting. But he manages to lean back, straighten his spine against the wall like he’s holding himself back, like he’s resisting some sort of temptation by not  _touching_ , even though Johnny can see his fingers twitch with the  _want_  to do so.

He knows Chris is close when he opens his eyes, glances at Johnny for half-a-breath before looking up, at God or heaven or just away from Johnny himself. His breathing speeds out of all pattern, until he’s gasping like he’s drowning in the minimal fall of water. Johnny doesn’t speak, just watches Chris’s face and keeps sliding his hand in a steady rhythm.

Then Chris looks down, straight into Johnny’s eyes, and his own are wide and frightened and desperate. “ _Master_ ,” he says, and it’s desperate, a wail for help from some lost thing. He comes off the wall, curls around Johnny’s body, and his hands, warmed by the water to something approaching at least vampiric body heat, come up to clutch at Johnny’s shoulder and back.

“My Cherry,” Johnny purrs, and Chris half-sobs against his shoulder and jerks and comes under his hand. The water washes them clean almost immediately, but Chris doesn’t move, now that he’s against Johnny, just holds onto him like he’s unable to stand on his own, and Johnny slides his hand free and reaches around to pull him in and hold him steady.


End file.
